Fragments
by moonlighten
Summary: August, 2011: England discovers that no magical misdeed goes unpunished. Multi-chapter, in progress. Part 66 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

My first new fic in the FtF series for quite a long while! Sequel to to the as yet unfinished Precautionary Tales.

* * *

**-  
August, 2011; London, England**

-  
As he spends so many nights tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable spot in which to sleep in strange beds with mattresses that are always either too soft or too hard, so many days drinking tea that never tastes right because it hasn't been made with water that had been filtered through the kidneys of seven other Londoners before him, and so many hours shuttling between cities and countries and continents that he sometimes feels a moment of existential terror that he's forgotten exactly where and even who he is, England finds more comfort in the routine of his home life than just about anything else.

He wakes at six fifty-nine precisely, which gives him just enough time to blink open his eyes and stretch the sleep-ache out of his arms and legs before his alarm starts to blare at seven. He rises promptly, opens his curtains to contemplate the sky – yesterday's weather forecast had promised a fine day, but the few clouds drifting overhead are a particularly ominous sort of grey; England rearranges his internal schedule accordingly, and resolves to mow his lawn sooner rather than later – and thereafter retreats to his bathroom.

He showers, shaves and brushes his teeth with wonderfully familiar, chalky London water, then allows himself a moment to study his reflection in the mirror above the sink once the steam has cleared from it. There are some fine lines gathered at the corners of his eyes that weren't there yesterday and likely won't be there tomorrow. England has found over the course of his long life that his is a mutable immortality; that his body alters and grows, though it does not, as yet, decay. These signs of ageing – a grey hair here, a wrinkle there – are both trivial and transitory, and on the whole, he looks no older than when he fought in the Second World War, or even the Boer.

Nevertheless, the changes are oddly comforting, as they reassure him that his country is still changing, too, still evolving and maturing.

If they ever linger for more than a week or so, then he will start to worry.

He dresses in his lazy day uniform of shirt, cardigan, and shabby corduroys that were deliberately bought one size too large so they fall with a comfortable looseness around his hips, and breakfasts at seven thirty on a bowl of cornflakes and two slices of brown toast, washed down with a glass of orange juice. The juice leaves a horrible metallic aftertaste in his mouth and he promises himself for the umpteenth time that he'll start brushing his teeth after he's eaten instead of before, even though, realistically, he knows he'll do the exact same thing tomorrow. Habits are so very hard to break.

After he's cleared away his plate and glass, he indulges himself by preparing a pot of tea rather than just chucking a teabag and boiling water in a mug and calling it done. Given the delicate blends of expensive loose leaf tea he has been gifted for countless Christmases, his colleagues and extended family clearly consider him a connoisseur of the stuff, but he is not. Ideally, he has simple English Breakfast, brewed so long that it's almost black, with a splash of milk and as many sugars as he can stand without it feeling as though it's rotting through his teeth whilst he drinks it. 'Builder's tea,' Scotland calls it, and he always sounds unfathomably proud when he does so.

As he is free of the imposition and intrusion of company for the time being, England also indulges himself by taking his tea in the parlour, his refuge of the past three centuries and more. Even more than his corduroys, it's been worn into such a smooth fit for him over the years that he finds it relaxing to do nothing more than simply exist in it. Each piece of furniture has been wisely selected and lovingly restored, the chairs padded to just the right firmness that they neither make his tailbone sore even if he were to idle away the entire morning upon one, nor unwittingly lull him into sleep like the voluminous sofas in his living room do.

And he does so enjoy to idle here, sometimes with a good book and a glass of brandy, sometimes with Radio 4 and hot chocolate, and sometimes with no distractions other than his own thoughts and memories. His brothers often, repeatedly, and irritatingly, disparage his choice of artwork for the parlour, but England can think of no better subject to surround himself than the oil-paint renditions of cows, pigs and sheep that hang there.

Admittedly, he had only been 'playing' at being a farmer in the nineteenth century, just as Scotland had accused him of, picking delicately through the mud and cow shit in an attempt not to dirty either his frock-coat or spit-shined shoes, so he could go and gaze with proprietary pride at his livestock and land. That hobby farm had been as much of a refuge as the parlour, though. Somewhere he could retreat to in order to escape Scotland, Wales and Ireland – who were never quiet and never easy and never still; his house had felt more like a battleground than a home, then – and pretend for a while that he had no worries more pressing than field drainage, feed stores, and the price of meat.

He casts his eye over them affectionately as he sips his tea, and contentment wells up and through him, even more warm and reassuring than the cheerfully crackling fire he has set in the grate.

He has no meetings today, no-one to make any demands on him save for the fae, whose needs are refreshingly simple, and he intends to thoroughly waste his time from now until he retires to bed. Beyond the mowing and a few other routine gardening chores, there's very few productive things that he needs to do that can't be put off until tomorrow.

He had spent the majority of his week in Paris, being simpered to, pawed at, and patronised by the Frog in the name of diplomacy. He likes to think that he weathered the ordeal with as much aplomb as could be reasonably be expected of him, but his teeth have been gritted through so many false smiles lately that he can feel the sting in his jaw even now.

Sometimes, he misses the days when he and France could officially claim each other as enemies, because he could at least knee the bastard between the legs whenever he deserved it back then – every second sentence he spoke, as a rule – and still expect to be lauded for it by his bosses, instead of being subjected to yet another lecture about 'unwarranted attacks on our allies'.

The unwelcome Gallic turn of his thoughts rather sours his appreciation of his second cup of tea, and he gulps it down solely to avoid waste, begrudging every drop.

He finds he can't settle afterwards: his thoughts chase themselves in endless, agitated circles, his chair suddenly feels too narrow and confining, and his hands are afflicted with a nervous twitch, seemingly determined to form fists of their own accord.

Cursing France and his ability to ruin a man's leisure and peace of mind even when his smug, aggravating face is over two hundred miles away, England lurches to his feet and resolves to distract himself with the one non-horticultural task he feels he cannot postpone.

Mrs Patel from number 5 always comes in to water England's plants and turn his downstairs lights off and on in a burglar-baffling pattern whilst he's away on business, a favour he returns by feeding her cat whenever she and her husband are out of town. She also gathers up his post as another crime prevention measure, and leaves it in a stack on the shelf by England's front door.

England had noticed that it was quite a sizeable one when he returned home late last night, but he hadn't had either the energy or mental fortitude to tackle it then. It had niggled at him, though, even in sleep, and his dreams had been filled with envelopes that were as big as whales and trying to swallow him whole.

He really does hate to get behind on his paperwork.

The stack has been rendered even taller this morning by the addition of one of his fae, who is sleeping curled up on top of it. From the red hat upon its tiny head, England can tell even from a distance that its George; a gnome with the temperament of an already angry cat stuffed unwillingly into a very small bag. Consequently, England is very careful as he eases the letters out from beneath it.

Despite his caution, George awakens to the accompaniment of a shrill chittering noise that Northern Ireland has described in the past as 'pins being pushed slowly through your eardrums', but usually puts England in mind of grasshoppers stridulating in the Spring sunshine.

Today, however, he can see where Northern Ireland is coming from, especially when George yawns and its hinged jaw swings down low enough that each and every one of its sharp, predator's teeth is put on show.

"I was just getting these," England says, holding up his letters in demonstration.

George's jet black eyes shine like an oil spill.

"I thought I'd sort through them in the dining room," England continues as he gingerly starts to walk away from the gnome, avoiding any sudden, alarming movements. "This sort of thing's easier with a big, flat surface to work on."

He doesn't know why he bothers to explain anything to his fae, who cannot hope to understand him, but it too is a habit many centuries in the making. It's nice to have someone to talk to, even if they can't talk back.

Besides, they seem to find the sound of his voice soothing. George is no exception, and England soon hears the soft pitter patter of its little feet following along the hallway behind him. Frequently, it will choose to travel around by means of embedding its claws into England's thigh and thereby hitching a lift on the back of his leg, so the sound is something of a relief.

When England reaches the dining room, George jumps up onto the table, hunkers down into a crouch, and then proceeds to excavate one of its nostrils with a great deal of focus and attention. As its nails are half as long again as its fingers, and wickedly pointed at the end, England has often wondered how it manages such a feat without doing itself a grievous injury.

"Now, I'll make three piles," England says as he takes his own seat at the table. "One for bills, one for junk mail, and one for personal correspondence."

Halfway through the stack, he still only has two piles.

"It's such a shame that letter writing is going the way of the dodo," England tells George. "I mean, emails and so on do have their place, and I wouldn't be without them now, but there's nothing that can quite compare to getting a letter."

George appears to have no opinion on the matter.

"I used to receive so many that I hardly had time in the day to reply to them all," England continues, undeterred by the gnome's disinterest, "but nowadays I... Oh!"

Lurking beneath England's latest electricity statement is an envelope with far more promise. The paper it's constructed from is thick and creamy, obviously expensive, and his name and address are written upon it in beautiful, even copperplate. No pedestrian begging for his custom, this.

"I wonder who it's from?" England asks the indifferent gnome as he peers down at the stamp. It's a regular first class one with no distinguishing features, and the postmark is so smudged as to be unrecognisable.

"No better way to find out than to open it, right?"

England takes the gnome's silence as agreement, and runs the blade of his letter opener with a fastidious hand beneath the envelope's flap so that it opens as neatly as possible.

There are three sheets of paper inside, of equally high quality as the envelope.

On the first, England reads:

_Dear Mr Kirkland,_

_I am writing to inform you that_

-  
There's nothing more on that page, nor the second. At the top of the third page, written in a much bolder, sloppier hand is:

**_YOU ARE A WANKER_**

-  
"How odd," England muses aloud as he turns this last sheet over to see if there's any sort of explanation to be found on the reverse of it.

There are no words, however, only a spiral of runes that flare bright, searing red as his gaze touches them.

England screws his eyes closed immediately, and hurls the paper to the floor, even though he already knows it's too late for him. Words have a power that even he cannot hope to contain, and the runes represent words in their most primal, potent form. Because he's seen them, recognised them, the spell they contain twists through his mind like a thicket of brambles, prickling at the inside of his skull.

The nauseating stink of burning sulphur begins to fill the air.


	2. Chapter 2

**August, 2011; Cardiff, Wales**

-  
Wales is hauled unceremoniously out of sleep by the jaunty chirruping of his mobile as it alerts him to the receipt of a text.

Fuzzy-headed with fatigue, and a fumbling novice where the Byzantine menus of his phone are concerned even at his mental best, he takes a lengthy detour through his contact list and several applications of enigmatic purpose before he finally arrives at the option that allows him to view the message.

It's from England, and implores him to:

**Get down here. Now.**

Wales lies staring up at his ceiling, mobile cradled in his hands, waiting for full consciousness to finish percolating through his still-sluggish body, and for a second text containing some form of an explanation to arrive.

Five minutes gifts him with enough co-ordination to clamber out of bed and don his dressing gown, but no further information concerning where England wants him to go so urgently. Granted, the most logical answer is England's home, but Wales rejects it on principle. He is sick and tired of his brothers attempting to commandeer his time and attention without so much of a 'by your leave', apology, or acknowledgement that he is a separate being with needs and wants wholly unconnected to whatever crisis, misfortune, or, more often than not, mere inconvenience they currently find themselves stricken by.

The simple courtesy of 'please' and 'thank you' would be nice, for a start.

"I am not going to go anywhere," he tells the impassive screen of his phone. "I do have my own life, you know."

This small gesture of defiance might well be futile – and slightly embarrassing, even unobserved in the solitude of his own bedroom – but Wales feels stronger for it, all the same. A little less guilty that he hadn't immediately leapt into his car and hared down to London with all possible haste so that he could help England unpack, listen to him complain about his trip to Paris, or whatever the fuck else it is that he thinks is so very urgent that it deserves to impinge on Wales' weekend.

Only the tiniest smidgeon less guilty, it transpires. The content of the text niggles at him as he eats his breakfast, robbing his ungarnished porridge and milky tea of the already marginally enjoyment he would normally find in consuming them. It nags at him whilst he washes the dishes, badgers during his morning ablutions, and eventually plagues him to such an extent as he dresses that he feels almost physically compelled to ask England:

**whats happened**

It shows more concern than England should justly anticipate, given his brusqueness, and a far kinder response than his brother might have received had he issued his demand to either Scotland or Northern Ireland. Not that he ever would.

The warm glow of satisfaction that suffuses Wales proves a soothing balm for his nerves, easing his mind sufficiently that he can settle down to read in his living room afterwards, secure in the belief that he has discharged his brotherly duty with perfect adequacy.

His inner serenity and composure do not survive intact through the next chapter of his book, wherein the two protagonists finally act upon the sexual tension that had been building between them during the preceding twenty-six.

In the past, that turn of events would have charmed him, but, in the past, he was regularly in contact with people who found him interesting and attractive enough that romantic culminations of his own weren't exactly in short supply. Nowadays, he has to pretend contentment with nothing more than the sexual advances of his right hand, and a fictional relationship with a nation who finds his company only marginally more engaging that that of a mouldy sandwich.

A little while later, as Wales is looking blankly at nothing in particular and ruing the series of poor choices which have yoked him to this dismal state of affairs for the foreseeable future, another tinkling cascade of notes heralds the arrival of an unneeded confirmation that England no more reads what Wales writes than listens to what he says.

**How's the traffic? What time should I expect you?**

Wales laboriously taps out:

**i wouldnt know i havent set off yet**

A moment later, England replies:

**Stop pissing about, Wales. This is important. I need you to see you today.**

And then:

**pls**

Wales' heart sinks and his pulse rises. England's texts never normally deviate from their correct use of spelling, capitalisation, and the punctuation that Wales has yet to ferret out of its hiding place on his own phone, even when he's so drunk that he can barely string two coherent words together verbally. Nothing short of catastrophe could explain him sending that one, half-formed word.

At times such as these, some part of Wales' brain – one which he can only think to label as 'foolish sentimentality' – persists in picturing England as he had appeared in the dark years immediately following their mother's death. He'd been a tiny, helpless creature then, full of wordless hunger and need, who'd always looked to big brother Wales for comfort whenever he was hurt or scared because big brother Scotland would sooner give a smack than sympathy for his tears.

It's an image that connects directly to every single protective instinct that Wales possesses.

He sighs, and gets up to fetch his car keys.  
-

* * *

**-  
August, 2011; London, England**

-  
George is standing attention at England's side when he opens his front door to Wales' knock. Both brother and gnome are red-cheeked and scowling, but as only George has sunk his teeth into Wales' ankle in recent memory, Wales is careful to keep his distance from it as he enters the house.

England, conversely, he draws as close to as his brother's expansive personal space will allow, desperately searching his face for any betraying signs of serious injury or illness. England's eyes are clear, however, and his expression, though distorted, radiates nothing more than anger and frustration, without a single speck of discomfort on display.

Nevertheless, Wales gives England's shoulder a gentle, comforting squeeze, just in case he's reading him wrong, and asks, "How are you feeling?"

England produces a small notebook and pen from his trouser pocket, hurriedly scrawls something across the top page, and then holds it up for Wales to see.

He has written:

_I've lost my voice._

It's hardly the sort of calamity that justifies a hundred-and-odd mile drive that nudged far too close to breaking various speed limits throughout for Wales' comfort, but, then again, England has always seemed to suffer the effects of even the most minor ailments very acutely. Or, at least, he acts as though he does.

No matter if England had, perhaps, overreacted, Wales is here now, for better or worse, so he might as well make himself useful. "Shall I make you a Lemsip?" he asks, albeit with slightly less urgency and concern than when posing his previous question.

England scribbles on his pad again.

_A Lemsip's not going to help me. I __misspoke__ miswrote before. I haven't_ lost _my voice, Scotland fucking stole it!_

The last exclamation point is extremely emphatic – the pen-strike that formed its dot has punched clear through the paper – but Wales has his doubts, nevertheless. England is very quick to ascribe to Scotland's malfeasance what economic blips, political rumblings, or even repeatedly circulating aeroplane air might more easily explain.

"What makes you think that?"

_I'd recognise his hexwork anywhere._

The thought that England had guilt-tripped him southwards for no better reason than to fetch and carry cold remedies and occasionally mop his brow had been an irritating one, but no more than that. Wales is long used to caring for his brothers when they take ill, and supposes it's a rod he has made for his own back over the many centuries of his playing nurse to them.

The realisation that he has been, in his ignorance, dragged into the middle of one of Scotland and England's disagreements yet a-fucking-gain makes him feel as though he's been actively deceived for the first time. It's no surprise now that England avoided explaining himself in his texts. If he'd mentioned Scotland's name, Wales never would have left Cardiff.

"It'll probably wear off in a few hours," he says placatingly, resenting both England and Scotland in absentia for making him play referee once more, and himself even more so, for his inability to refuse the role they keep forcing upon him. "No harm done."

_No harm done! What if there'd been a fire, Wales? I could hardly have phoned for the Fire Brigade, then, could I? No, I would have burnt to a crisp!_

"I think they send someone out to check every 999 call, even if you don't –"

_Or what if someone had attacked me? And I couldn't call out for help?_

is thrust violently under his nose.

Wales has to wonder how long it took England to dream up these worst-case scenarios. The full three hours of Wales' journey, most likely, and they're still so tenuous and unlikely that it takes all of Wales' considerable self-restraint not to laugh at them.

"But you weren't, and you're fine, so I don't see what the big problem is?" he says.

_Scotland_ cursed _me! Without provocation!_

"You did turn him into a child, and left him like that for over a week," Wales points out. "I imagine that counts as provocation."

_That was an accident. And I a_

England pauses momentarily, his pen poised in the midst of forming a 'p', and then very wisely scribbles the entire second sentence out.

He had not, in fact, made even an attempt at an apology, which Wales presumes is the underlying reason for his current predicament.

"Consider it penance, then."

England's scowl returns, this time directed at Wales instead of the world in general.

_You always take his side over mine._

"I do not," Wales snaps, offended by the accusation because he expends so much energy in his attempts to avoid doing just that, despite it being an almost insurmountable trial at times. "I just think you should be glad he didn't do anything worse. _Yr Alban_ knows some fucking horrendous curses."

_IT WAS AN ACT OF WAR._

Wales groans. "No it wasn't. It was _payback_. Don't try and turn it into more than it is. Please, just this once, let it go."

England regards him for a time in what seems to be deliberate silence, rather than an inevitable consequence of the curse. Then, he gives a stiff, grudging nod of his head.

Wales' answering silence is a stunned one. Reason doesn't usually work to sway England from pursuing any vengeance he has persuaded himself is a necessity. _Nothing_ usually works, save for wreaking it.

He doesn't entirely trust England's agreement, though for the moment, he's willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Their kind might change slowly, but they _do_ change. Maybe England really has had a change of heart.

Wales is far from naive, but he is endlessly, desperately hopeful.

"It's for the best, _Lloegr_," he says, smiling proudly at his brother. "Now, why don't I put the kettle on? You might not need a Lemsip, but I'm sure we could both do with a cup of tea."  
-

* * *

**-  
August, 2011; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
Scotland has taken every possible safety precaution since sending his letter to England.

He has assigned the _ùruisg_ the task of collecting and opening his post, because the magic that had birthed them is anathema to England's own, and his spells have no hope of touching them.

He carefully screens his phone calls and email, and has resolved to answer his door solely for his friends from the Lion, take-away deliveries, and France, whose arrival on his front step Monday morning is such an unexpected delight that he forgets to question why he didn't ring ahead or bring any luggage, and has apparently skipped out on the very EU meeting with Germany he had left Edinburgh so early on Sunday in order to attend.

It's only when it's much too late to be of any use to him, and England's recorded curse is already echoing deafening in his ears, that he recalls just how many of his brother's fae are able to shift their shape quite convincingly into any human form.


	3. Chapter 3

**August, 2011; Cardiff, Wales**

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Of late, Wales' social life has been curtailed to such an extent through circumstance, abstinence, and, if he's ruthlessly honest with himself, the strangely gratifying feeling of martyrdom he derives from wallowing so deeply in the consequences of his mistakes, that the highlight of his week has become the Tuesday quiz night at his local, the White Hart.

He has been enthusiastically adopted into a group of retirees there – spearheaded by his sexagenarian neighbour, Janine – in whom he seems inspire a sense of both parental protectiveness and fellow-feeling, more than likely because he simultaneously resembles a exceptionally baby-faced twenty-something, cast adrift post-uni without a friend in the world, and has the sensibilities and taste in clothes, he has been told, of a pensioner.

They're all decent people, and decent enough company, too, if one has a high tolerance for conversations about ailments major and minor, the deplorable state of the buses, and a certain short span of years that has been designated by mutual consensus between them as 'the good old days'. (A time that Wales personally regards as neither 'old' nor recalls as being especially 'good', but as he lacks the rose-tinted glasses of childhood nostalgia the others share, he forebears to pass comment.)

Even so, after he dresses in his evening out uniform of shirt, cardigan and best corduroys, and takes one last, appraising look in the mirror to check that he passes muster for company, he can't help but notice that his eyes have the flat, resigned look of a trapped animal. Normally, he thrives on habit, just of most of his kind do, but this particular one has started to suffocate more than comfort, maybe because he persists in comparing it to the far more corporeally satisfying rhythms of his nights before the decision that ruined everything.

He pauses at his bedroom door, to consider staying in just to break his routine, and then again at his front door, to consider turning left rather than right at the end of his street, heading away from the Hart and into the centre of Cardiff, where there will at least be different people to meet who have new things to say.

When, in the midst of his deliberations his mobile unexpectedly rings, it does not make his heart leap with anticipatory joy, however. It does not make it sing with possibilities, even upon noting that the caller is France.

His thoughts instead turn, gloomily, towards Scotland, from whom he has not heard in an unprecedented three days, and thence to England, and the revenge Wales had hoped against hope he wouldn't take.

Perhaps Scotland's silence had been an enforced one, and he can only talk using France as a go-between now.

"_Cymru_," France purrs after Wales reluctantly answers the call, "I'm afraid I need to ask a favour of you."

Occasionally, France's voice will hit a specific pitch and timbre that ensures it bypasses every synapse of rationality in Wales' brain and connects directly to his id, in just the same way that those little chocolates shaped like seashells, pear cider, and a nice pair of broad shoulders do. And like them, Wales finds it very hard to resist as a consequence.

"Whatever you want," he finds himself saying.

France gives a low, throaty chuckle that makes Wales' id's id sit up and take notice, too. If he goes on to ask Wales to carve out his heart with a teaspoon and present it to him wrapped with a bow, Wales will be rifling through his cutlery drawer in an instant.

"Unfortunately, I have to return to Paris by tomorrow afternoon at the latest as I have a meeting that I must attend, but Scotland is... unwell, and needs someone to take care of him," France says, which although a relief where Wales' continued bodily integrity is concerned, does fill him with a good deal of dread and disappointment, nevertheless. England's promise of restraint hadn't been worth the paper it had eventually been written on, after all. "His affliction is one that he's finding quite embarrassing, and as you're his best friend –"

"Actually, that would be _Iwerddon_," Wales says very quickly and very loudly, just in case Scotland is lurking somewhere near France and thus within earshot. "Maybe you'd be better off phoning her."

"If you like," France says, sounding unconvinced by the idea. "But I really do think he would prefer if it was you. In fact, he's said so himself. Repeatedly."

That last word is so leaden with portent and meaning that Wales fancies that he can almost feel it dropping physically out of the phone and into his ear. "Exactly how is _Yr Alban_ unwell, _Ffrainc_?"

"He will not... He _cannot_ stop talking." There's a strained note of desperation in France's tone that bespeaks at least one sleepless night. "About anything and everything that happens to pass through his mind. Did you know that he didn't much care for Peter Jackson's adaptation choices for Lord of the Rings?"

The question stumps Wales momentarily, whilst he mentally fumbles through the dimmer recesses of his memory in search of an answer to it. "He might have mentioned something like that," is the eventual best he can do. "In passing."

"I, on the hand, was treated to an hour long monologue on the subject. And before that, it was _two_ hours on England's many and varied failings, and before that..." France sighs deeply. "It appears he can only be silent if he's alone, though that causes him so much pain that he can't help but seek out company. I really don't want to hurt him, but..."

"You've got to get to your meeting," Wales finishes for France because he seems unwilling to. Although he doubts France would fabricate a prior engagement out of whole cloth to escape from Scotland – no matter what Scotland's current state of loquaciousness might be – Wales wouldn't blame him for exaggerating the importance of his attending to it. He sounds so _tired_. "Don't worry, _Ffrainc_. I'll be there."  
-

* * *

**-  
August, 2011; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
France looks as though he had rounded the cape of tiredness quite some time ago and has since struck out into the becalmed waters of pure exhaustion. Every inch of his face is sagging dejectedly, from his lifeless hair and down on through the grey, bagged skin beneath his eyes to the unhappy, listless droop of his lips.

The hug he gives Wales upon greeting him is still tight enough to make Wales' ribs ache, however, and the kisses he presses to his cheeks afterwards smack with furious gratitude.

"Your timing is impeccable as always, _Cymru_," he says, his eyes sparking with new life. His hands linger, claw-like, on Wales' shoulders, his fingers digging bruisingly deep as though he needs them as an anchor. "I must leave now if I have any chance of making my flight. I've already made my goodbyes. At length. Three times over."

He pulls Wales closer once more, gives him a whispered, "_Bonne chance_," and a sorrowful look, and then he's off and away out without so much as a backward glance.

As soon as the front door closes behind him, Scotland calls out, "Is that you, Wales?"

"Yes, I –"

"Thank fuck for that. France was sitting right here with me right up until he went to answer the doorbell, and my head had already started feeling as though someone had taken a whisk to my fucking brain. Did he tell you about that? That I can't fucking shut up because it hurts so bloody much."

"Yes, he –"

"I'm going to make England suffer for this. Eviscerate him. Tear off his..."

Whilst Scotland describes the pain he's going to inflict in loving detail, Wales follows the raspy sound of his voice into the living room. The curtains are drawn at all the windows, only one small table lamp is lit, and he struggles to resolve his brother's wilting form on the sofa from the resultant shadows.

He approaches slowly, cautiously, just in case Scotland feels the need to work his anger out on the nearest warm body because his true target is beyond his reach for the moment. It soon becomes obvious that he lacks the energy and motivation for any such thing, though. He looks even more haggard than France did, and his head bowed down so low, his massive shoulders so slumped, that it looks as if his entire spine has been turned into rubber and no longer has the structural integrity required to keep him upright.

He doesn't turn towards Wales as he sits down beside him, only flickers his eyes very briefly in his direction. His mouth, conversely, never stops moving.

"He sent one of his fae to me," he says, "shifted to look like France otherwise I never would have let the bugger in the house. It had something with it – don't know what, never saw it – that played a recording of his spell. I passed out for fuck knows how long, and when I came to, it felt like there was a whole nest of snakes in my belly trying to eat their way out of there."

"Do you want me to try and lift the curse?" Wales asks as his brother's voice starts tailing off towards a hoarse croak.

Scotland coughs as though to clear his throat, but more words come spilling out on his mouth along with his expelled breath, and it does little to help. "Naw, it won't work. Tried earlier, but the bastard's learnt after last time. It's like a snake itself. An ouroboros. It's tied up so tightly, end over end, that you won't be able to find a way into it.

"Thought I could fight it, instead, when I couldn't break it, but it was more than just pain it was... You know how it feels when you want to sneeze, and there's all this pressure building up in your head and your nose, and eventually it just forces its way out even if you're trying your hardest to keep it in because you're at the fucking opera or whatever and half the audience will turn round and glare at you as though you did it on purpose because you're an uncultured wanker who wanted to disrupt the aria because you were sick of listening to it or something. It was like that, but with my entire body, and somehow I just _knew_ that it'd all go away if I could talk to someone.

"James is off work for the day, so I went round to his, and it started off okay at first. I talked at him about football for a while, but then..." Scotland pauses to lick his dry, cracked lips, but the hesitation seems to cost him dearly. He winces, rubbing distracted circles over his stomach, and swiftly adds, "Then, out of nowhere, I told him that he had a nice arse. James! I was more shocked than him, I reckon. There I am, passing judgement, and I hadn't ever noticed that he even _had_ an arse before. Not in an aesthetic sense, anyway.

"I _never_ notice people's arses. Well, except for France's, of course. And Jersey's, once upon a time. And, way back when..."

Scotland's mouth slams shut, lips curled around and held tight between his teeth. His cheeks bulge with trapped air, and a flush creeps up his face from the tip of his chin to his hairline.

"Are you okay, _Yr Alban_?" Wales asks anxiously.

Scotland shakes his head, and jabs his finger repeatedly and emphatically towards the living room door.

"You want me to leave?"

A small but very firm nod sends Wales scurrying out into the hallway, and then, fearing that might not be far enough for Scotland's comfort as he's clearly near bursting with the need to say something that he doesn't want Wales to hear, further on into the kitchen.

Next to the kettle, a chopping board has been left out upon which a mug, several lemons, and the cheapest bottle of whisky Scotland owns are arrayed; a testament to both France's forethought and the endurance of his concern, even at a distance.

Wales sets the kettle to boiling, and eventually Scotland's voice rings out again over the bubbling hiss of the water. "You can come back now, Wales. Please."

He's never heard his brother sounding that plaintive before, and he squeezes lemons and sloshes whisky and hot water around so quickly in his haste to return to him that he leaves the countertop dripping in his wake.

Scotland receives the steaming mug from him with such profuse thanks that it makes them both blush, and thereafter continues his story as though he'd never taken a break from it. "That's when I realised that England hadn't just cursed me to keep talking, but to speak every damn thought that crossed my mind, even the ones that went by so fast that I wasn't consciously aware of them."

It's possibly one of the cruellest spells that England could have picked to cast when it came to their brother. Scotland is, when relaxed and in his element, a gregarious person, willing to chat to just about anyone who wants to pass time with him, but he also guards his private self very, very closely. It must be a torment for him, to find himself _forced_ to bare it in that way unbidden.

For a brief moment, Wales believes that England deserves every ounce of the punishment Scotland is bound to dole out to him in retaliation.

"Obviously, I shot out of James' like my arse was on fire, and locked myself in here before anyone else chanced to cross my path. But then the snakes came back, and the sneezy feeling. I tried to ride it out, I really did, but then it all got to be too much and I cracked. I gave in and called France and he let me talk at him half the fucking day, off and on. During his meeting, as well – which I'm sure he's going to get a tonne of shit for at some point – and then, when it finished, he came over here as soon as he could.

"He was... fantastic about it all. Which I shouldn't have been surprised about, I suppose, but I was. I'm always surprised that he manages to put up with this sort of crap nowadays.

"And it was fine, at first, but then neither of us got any sleep Monday night, and we're both like bears with sore heads when we're tired. I said something inadvisable after dinner, and that was it, we were fighting about pastry for the best part of an hour. Pastry! I don't know the first thing about pastry, but there I was, spouting off my opinions on the stuff like I'm a master baker or something. Then, not ten minutes later, we were off again, arguing about that thing he does where..."

Scotland's mouth puckers, and he takes a couple of deep breaths before growling out, "That thing that you don't need to know about, and a hundred other things, besides. We ended up closer to coming to blows than we've ever been, and then he phoned you. For the best for both our sakes', I think."

Scotland pauses again for just long enough to take a refreshing draught of his lemon and whiskey, and in that snatched moment of quiet, Wales resolves to try and turn his brother's thoughts, conscious and otherwise, to more innocuous things in order to spare him the discomfort and embarrassment of accidentally straying into more personal matters.

"France was telling me that the two of you had a very interesting conversation about the Lord of the Rings films," he says, feigning rapt attention.

And, as France had reported, he did have a lot to say on the matter, though none of it was especially interesting, nor did it fill a full hour, as advertised. It does, however, segue into a tenuously related soliloquy about Harry Potter, and thence, via a nimble leap of logic that Wales cannot quite follow, Arthur C. Clarke, thence his three laws, and thence... Thence he traipses along many a digressionary verbal path that Wales neglects to follow him down.

He smiles and nods whilst he thinks of other things, just as he has done over many, many centuries of being talked at by England, occasionally tops up Scotland's mug, and slowly but surely, the hours tick by.

Around midnight, the low rumble of Scotland's voice suddenly deepens, and then sunders with a loud, thundering crack. The sudden silence breaks through Wales' studied inattention where no amount of noise ever could.

"Is something wrong?" he asks Scotland.

"Nothing at all. See?" He stares at Wales without speaking for a moment, and then gives a wheezy little rattle of a laugh. "Seems like the spell's worn off at long fucking last."

"I'm glad, _Yr Alban_," Wales says, returning his brother's delighted grin. "You should finally be able to get some sleep now. Sorry to say, but you look like you really need it."

"Fuck sleep," Scotland says derisively. "Naw, what I can finally do is concentrate long enough to work on the curse I'm going to send to England. I know you're probably going to tell me I should let it go, be the bigger man and all that crap, but the sneaky wee shite used France against me, and there's no way on earth I'm going to let him get away with _that_."


	4. Chapter 4

**August, 2011; London, England**

-  
Every third week or so, Northern Ireland is brought low by something that isn't quite homesickness, but more a yearning for the simpler days of his childhood, when neatly folded clean clothes appeared miraculously in his chest of drawers at regular intervals and he never ran out of socks.

This affliction generally strikes him whenever his stipend is running out and he's been surviving on baked beans on toast, cheese sandwiches, and other variations around the theme of cheap white bread for several days. Then, even England's charred roasts and granite-like fruit cake seem as though they would be ambrosial in comparison, and he begins to long for his brother's company.

The last dregs of his bank account are then routinely spent on travelling to London, where England will welcome him with lectures about his fiscal irresponsibility, but, more importantly, a cup of tea, endless supply of biscuits, and an offer to wash as many loads of laundry as Northern Ireland has managed to cram into his suitcase.

Even though these visits don't fall on a particular date with any regularity – Northern Ireland's concept of budgeting is an extremely flexible one, and highly dependent on the number of video game releases that interest him month on month – and Northern Ireland always forgets to call ahead, England is usually standing by and prepared to greet his arrival, nevertheless.

Today, however, Northern Ireland has not only had to let himself into England's house, but put the kettle on, too. The water within it takes over two minutes to boil, suggesting that it had been flat cold, which Northern Ireland finds slightly perplexing. He's familiar enough with his brother's routines to know that he should have recently prepared his post-lunch brew, and taken it into the dining room to drink whilst he frowns over the Sunday paper and reads articles he finds particularly aggravating out to his fae.

Equally perplexing, then, is that the dining room has not only a dearth of England, but also signs that he might have been called away unexpectedly. There is no _Times_ spread out across the table, the outer edges of its pages crumpled by angrily clutching hands; no pen set aside, unsheathed in readiness to do battle with the crossword. It's as if he was never there.

Northern Ireland checks the library afterwards, just in case England has suffered from a fit of spontaneity so violent that no one room could contain it, and then the living room and study. He cautiously peeks into the parlour.

All of them are empty.

Anxiety mounting, he hurries up to the bedrooms, taking the stairs two at a time. The only thing stirring in any of them is one of England's fae: a squat, rotund thing with a pale face that is permanently twisted into the expression of a being cursed with perpetual heartburn. Northern Ireland thinks England had named it George.

Northern Ireland just calls it fucking creepy, like the rest of his brother's magical menagerie. There's something horribly unnatural about the way it moves – how they _all_ move – as though its joints are strung with elastic instead of set like hinges, and its legs don't bend but flap and curve over its taloned feet as it scurries towards him.

Northern Ireland takes a step back from it as it nears, and then a second, much larger one, when it grabs hold of his trouser leg. It's dug its claws too deeply into the fabric to be so simply dislodged, though, so all he accomplishes is dragging it along with him as he moves

"Get off," Northern Ireland growls. "We have an arrangement, remember? You don't touch me, I don't flatten you and then flush you down the fucking toilet. That ring any bells?"

'George' displays no hint of either recognition or contrition. It simply chatters its pointed teeth at him and then parts its thin lips in its usual vacant, humourless grin.

Northern Ireland looks down at it, considering whether or not he should attempt to physically break its grip. On the one hand, it would bring his arm into biting range, and it always turns his stomach when he's forced by circumstance to touch any of the fae's slimy slug-like skin, in any case. There is no other hand. As ideas go, it's nothing but shite from beginning to end.

"Look, I was just trying to find my brother," he says instead, aiming for the soothing tone that he's often heard England employ whenever one of the little bastards has sunk its teeth into him and he can't shake them loose. "I'm sorry I disturbed you, or trespassed on your territory, or whatever the hell else it is that you think is worth breaking a thirty-year-old pact for. Let go of me, and we'll both forget it ever happened, okay?"

He offers 'George' as close to a smile as he can manage, and it rewards the effort by extending its claws until their tips graze against Northern Ireland's skin. Thus secured, it extends its free hand and points a hoary finger towards the window, gibbering more high-pitched nonsense all the while.

It's at times like these – and _only_ times like these – Northern Ireland wishes that he'd listened a little more closely in the past when his brothers started droning on about magic. Maybe they'd be able to translate what 'George' is trying to tell him, but as he's carefully maintained his ignorance about such things, it remains nothing more than meaningless noise.

"You want to go outside?" he ventures, experimentally and none too confident of achieving any success. The list of human words 'George' appears to understand probably wouldn't even stretch the vocabulary skills of the world's most taciturn parrot. "You heard something out there? Saw something? Some kid's fallen down a well? England –"

At the name, 'George's screeching reaches a crescendo and then suddenly cuts out. In the resounding silence afterwards, it disentangles itself from Northern Ireland's trousers and stands looking up at him expectantly, shifting its meagre weight from its left leg to its right and then right to left, over and over again.

It looks as though it's desperate for a wee, but Northern Ireland suspects that whatever's troubling it is most likely not toilet-related. His best guess is that something untoward has happened to his brother, though he knows better than try and confirm that with 'George'.

"Go on," he says. "Take me to England."

'George' scampers down the stairs, through the kitchen, and then scratches at the back door like a cat, making a soft, lost whimpering sound all the while.

"He's out in the garden, then," Northern Ireland concludes aloud, more for his own benefit than the fae's. Saying the words makes them seem like a promise, somehow, and therefore something he cannot walk away from in good conscience.

And he needs that, because walking away is precisely what he wants to do. The fae are not easily rattled by commonplace incidents and accidents, and England is even less easily harmed. When 'George's distress is added to England's absence, the inescapable conclusion is that his brother has been laid low by some manner of magical devastation that Northern Ireland is completely ill-equipped to deal with.

Still, with Ireland, Scotland, and Wales all hundreds of miles away, Northern Ireland is all England's got. He takes a deep breath, steels his nerves – and would gird his loins, too, if he wasn't improperly attired for such an undertaking – and takes hold of the door handle.

Then he pauses, thinks better of it, and peers out of the kitchen window to get the lay of the land first.

To his relief, the garden is neither beset by a rain of occult fire, nor overrun with eldritch horrors, only the fat grey squirrel that has claimed the number three slot in England's nemesis list due to its habit of raiding his bird feeders.

Beyond the thieving rodent, England's roses bob their heavy heads and his washing flaps lazily in the breeze. Nothing appears out of place save for a single dark spot at the farthest end of his precisely manicured lawn. That looks, Northern Ireland thinks, rather like a Clue.

It becomes no less portentous as he warily approaches it, but ever more disturbing, because proximity provides the revelation that the dark spot is comprised of England's shirt, shoes, underthings and trousers, discarded in a tangled heap.

Northern Ireland's head fills against his will with a whole host of possible explanations for his discovery, each more dreadful than the last.

The least horrendous of these, and therefore the one he dwells on the longest, is that England has been abducted by the very aliens that America volubly insists have been visiting earth for centuries for the express purpose of fucking around with livestock and sticking things up people's arses. As Northern Ireland has never been able to reconcile such behaviour with the advanced level of technology and civilisation that would seem to be a prerequisite for interstellar travel, he's never been especially convinced by such stories.

Much more convincing is the idea that England had stripped voluntarily. For a man who is as zealous as a puritan when it comes to ensuring his modesty sober, England is remarkably eager to expose his skin given the slightest opportunity when he's pissed. Nevertheless, whilst his brother's alcohol intake and drinking habits are hardly the healthiest, Northern Ireland has never known him to be exhibitionist-level drunk at one o'clock on a Sunday afternoon except in the most trying of times.

Of course, if he hadn't undressed himself, someone else might have done it for him. If America or Portugal had happened to drop by, then... Northern Ireland's mind makes a protective loop back around to the alien's, sparing him the full horror of completing that particular thought. He rotates through this unproductive mental cycle several times before eventually managing to wrench himself out of it.

Once liberated from his inertial paralysis, he continues his investigation by gingerly nudging at the pile of clothes with the toe of his trainer. They fail to melt through the rubber on contact, and no swarm of flesh-eating beetles bursts free of them, which helps him discount two of his more fanciful explanations for their presence.

The shifting of fabric does reveal a page torn from a magazine, however. The singeing around its edges does lend credence to the prospect that England had spontaneously combusted, even if his intact clothes do not. Given his brother's normal reaction when rubbish blows into his garden, Northern Ireland wouldn't be surprised if his blood had finally reached its literal boiling point at the sight of that single scrap of paper.

"Master Kirkland!" rings out suddenly and very stridently, distracting Northern Ireland from his contemplations.

Given the tone and form of address, he doesn't need to turn his head to know who's demanding his attention, but he turns it all the same, because Mr Featherstonehaugh will doubtless complain about his bad manners and the deplorable state of today's youth at tedious length if he doesn't react with alacrity.

The man in question is scowling over the fence he shares with England, his moustache bristling with indignation.

"How can I help you, Mr Featherstonehaugh?" Northern Ireland asks him with what he had thought was perfect politeness, but the man's glare only sharpens in response.

"Where's your brother?" he asks brusquely.

Northern Ireland wishes he knew. "He's just popped out for a bit," he says. "I'm sure he'll be home soon."

Mr Featherstonehaugh harrumphs in disgust. "A likely story. I've been knocking on his door every half hour since eleven o'clock this morning and seen neither hide nor hair of him."

"I can pass a on message to him, if you like."

"You can pass on more than a message, my lad." Mr Featherstonehaugh ducks down behind the fence for a moment, and then reappears clutching a black and tan Jack Russell terrier, which he holds so far outstretched from him that Northern Ireland's first thought is that it must have rolled in fox shit, as dogs are wont to do. "You can give him _this_. I presume it's his."

Northern Ireland shakes his head. "He doesn't own a dog," he says, with a certain amount of residual bitterness left over from the many decades of begging and pleading on his part that had gone cruelly unsatisfied in that regard.

"I can't think who else's it could be. It was in _his_ garden, barking incessantly. I thought the poor little thing had been abandoned."

Mr Featherstonehaugh's mouth twitches slightly. Northern Ireland thinks he might be attempting to smile, but the necessary muscles must have become so atrophied over his many years of disapproving of everyone and everything that crosses his path that his efforts come to naught.

"That's awful," Northern Ireland says, dashing forward to take the dog off Mr Featherstonehaugh before his obvious pity gets the better of him and he decides to keep it. He can't imagine that England would turn a stray back out onto the street, especially one that had wandered onto his property in search of shelter. With any luck, he'll feel obliged to keep it. "Here, I'll take it inside and give it something to eat whilst we wait for Arthur to get back."

Though the dog had huddled docile and quiescent between Mr Featherstonehaugh's hands as they talked, its tail starts wagging so forcefully when Northern Ireland reaches out to take it from him that its entire body quivers in sympathy with the movement., almost as if it recognises him.

That impression only intensifies when it gives an excited yip and swipes its tongue, just once, against the underside of Northern Ireland's chin. Although Northern Ireland normally resists anthropomorphising animals, he can't help but think it looks embarrassed after the lick, its ears drooping as it tucks its muzzle down against its chest.

There are two splotches of tan on its forehead that give it the appearance of having thick brows also drop down low, shadowing its eyes. Its green eyes. Northern Ireland has never seen a Jack Russell with eyes that colour before.

Scotland and Wales had once tried to engage Northern Ireland in a conversation about transformation magic, but he'd succeeded in ignoring most of it, save for one small detail, which had piqued his interest solely because the same concept had been raised in the Discworld book he was reading at the time.

"No matter what form a person takes, their eyes always stay the same colour," Wales had said. "It's often the only way you can tell that they've been transformed at all."

"Oh," Northern Ireland says. "Shit."


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as he has closed, locked _and_ bolted the back door against Mr Featherstonehaugh's gimlet-eyed suspicion, Northern Ireland carefully sets the little dog down on the kitchen floor and assays a cautious, "England?"

He had been hoping against hope that he would receive a curiously raised ear at most, but the dog responds as though it's just caught sight of a cat constructed from minced beef and sausages and begins haring around in excited little circles, yapping shrilly all the while.

Northern Ireland pulls a seat out from under the table and sinks down onto it dejectedly. "This is fucking ridiculous," he tells the dog. "My _life_ is ridiculous. It's bad enough that we're all just made up of... Of fucking togetherness and pixie dust, or whatever, but then I've got to put up with all this stupid crap on top of it, as well?"

The dog quiets, slows its rotations, and then trots towards Northern Ireland, its nails tick-tack-tapping across the tiled floor. When it reaches him, it rears up on its back legs and rests its paws on his knee, its head tilted slightly one side and its mouth lolling open in the doggy equivalent of a smile.

"That doesn't help," Northern Ireland says.

A cold, wet nose tentatively nudges his hand.

"Neither does that."

The dog nudges a little harder, and – seemingly against its will, judging by the distressed widening of its incongruous green eyes – voices a quiet, plaintive whimper.

As though guided by some outside force of great and terrible power, Northern Ireland reaches out without conscious thought and begins stroking the top of the dog's head.

Its coat is silkily soft, so far distant from the toilet brush that masquerades as England's hair that it's easy for Northern Ireland to forget for a humiliatingly long moment that he's basically petting his brother.

The horrible realisation apparently strikes both him and England simultaneously, as the dog ducks away from his hand in the exact same instant as Northern Ireland wrenches it back.

They both stare into opposite corners of the room for a while, giving each other time and space to deal with the embarrassment just as they would if they were both still human-shaped and their conversation had taken a turn towards the emotional or hugging had unexpectedly occurred, and when Northern Ireland's face finally stops feeling as though it could serve in lieu of a light bulb, he asks, "So, what should we do now?"

The dog cocks its head once more, considering, and then swiftly darts to the cellar door, whereupon it barks once in a distinctly imperious fashion.

"You want to go down there?"

He's answered with another singular bark, which Northern Ireland assumes is the affirmative, as that's the way it always seems to work in the formulaic supernatural tales that England scoffs at in company but voraciously devours in private: once for yes, twice for no.

He can't imagine why England might consider himself in dire need of a half-empty pot of paint, offcut of wood, or bottle of wine from the rack he keeps hidden from France's judgemental eye beneath an old curtain, so he must intend them to make use of the supplies that are stored behind the false wall and concealed door.

"Really?" he asks incredulously.

_Woof_.

"I'll do it, then." Northern Ireland shrugs. "Though I really don't see what good it'll do us."  
-

* * *

-  
"This is pointless," Northern Ireland says, slamming shut the fifth enormous, dusty tome in as many minutes. "I can't read Old English."

The dog sniffs disdainfully, suggesting that the book is actually written in Middle English, or Gothic, or some other language Northern Ireland has never even heard of that nonetheless uses entirely too many fucking thorns for him to easily decipher.

"Well, have you got any other bright ideas, then?"

The dog squats back on its haunches, and then makes a sudden leap for the chair set next to Northern Ireland's at the wide, acid- (or perhaps fire-; Northern Ireland wouldn't be surprised, either way) pitted desk. It doesn't quite make it, and though its front claws hook neatly into the chair's slatted back, anchoring it in place, its back legs pinwheel desperately, failing to find the purchase on the air that it requires so that it can haul its body up the rest of the way.

Northern Ireland grits his teeth, steels his nerves for the second time that day, and pushes gently on the dog's rump, giving it a much needed boost until it can settle itself comfortably on the seat.

They avoid each other's eyes again, and the dog takes the opportunity provided by their momentary mutual disavowal of one another's existence to snuffle at the pile of books Northern Ireland has not yet had chance to look at and fail to comprehend.

It eventually pushes one across the desk towards Northern Ireland with a tap of its paw. The book is thinner than the rest, but bound just as they are in cracked and peeling leather which smells faintly of mildew and leaves an unpleasantly slimy residue on Northern Ireland's fingertips when he reluctantly cracks it open.

There isn't anything that looks even remotely like a recognisable word inscribed on its yellowing pages, only spiralling patterns entwined with runes that make Northern Ireland's eyes sting when he endeavours to follow their lines.

"What am I supposed to do with these?" he asks. "Copy them out?"

_Woof_.

"What with? A pen?"

_Woof, Woof_.

"Pencil?"

_Woof, Woof._

"Paint?"

_Woof, Woof._

"My own blood?"

The suggestion's facetious, but the dog's answering bark sounds anything but, and it briefly presses its nose against the inside of Northern Ireland's wrist as though in apology.

"Fuck that." There are ten designs in the book, each one so complicated that Northern Ireland doubts that a simple pricked finger is going to be sufficient to draw them out, considering all the revisions and corrections he would likely have to make. And, besides, Scotland has lectured him on numerous occasions about how dangerous something as innocuous as a toenail clipping could be to him if it happened to fall into the wrong hands, so sloshing his _blood_ around with such reckless abandon seems downright foolhardy. "There must be some other way."

The dog's two barks seem uncertain this time, and Northern Ireland pounces gratefully on the element of doubt they introduce.

"Wales might know." He fishes his mobile out of the pocket of his hoody. "Or Scotland—"

The dog's top lip lifts in a snarl. Northern Ireland had been expecting some resistance, as England would probably prefer that their older brothers never find out about his predicament if at all possible, but if he wants to get _out_ of that predicament in anything approaching a timely fashion, it seems self-defeating to not even _try_ to pick their brains on the matter.

"They're bound to be more use than I am," he says as he scrolls through his contacts, "and—"

A growl rumbles in the dog's narrow chest, and its lip curls back even further to reveal teeth that are small but undeniably very sharp. Northern Ireland _thinks_ England wouldn't actually bite him, but he isn't willing to bet the continued integrity of his jugular on it.

"Okay," he says placatingly. "Okay, I'll draw the fucking... sigils, if you want. But... just let me get myself a cup of tea first. Got to try and keep hydrated if I'm going to bleeding everywhere, right?"  
-

* * *

-  
Thankfully, the dog pads along after Northern Ireland as he climbs up from the cellar, and once they reach the kitchen, he takes full advantage of its terrier instincts, chucks a ratty old tennis ball out into the back garden, and then locks the door behind it when it bounds off in enthusiastic pursuit.

Even though it makes him feel as though he deserves being reported to the RSPCA, he ignores the frenzied yipping and scratching at wood that results a few seconds later, and hurriedly phones Wales before his courage gives out.

"I'm at England's house," Northern Ireland says over Wales' cheerful greeting when he answers the call, "and something's... I think you should come over here. Right now."

"Of course," Wales says with alacrity, and the short pause that follows is filled on his end with the sound of shuffling feet, jangling keys, and the slam of a door. He must be halfway to his car already before he asks, "Why?"

"England's turned into..." The truth is so ludicrous that Northern Ireland can't bring himself to speak the words any louder than a whisper, even knowing that Wales has likely seen even more farcical misuses of magic in his time. "A dog."

"A dog?" Wales echoes, sounding irritated rather than shocked, horrified, or any other emotion that would seem better fitting to the news. "For the love of..." His footsteps resound again, landing more heavily than before, and then he barks out, "You went to Arthur's, didn't you? After you _promised_ me that you'd leave him alone today."

The voice that replies to Wales is so muffled that Northern Ireland can't understand a single word it says, but given its bass, rumbling timbre, he deduces that it's Scotland's.

"Yes, it _worked_. And Michael found him like that. I hope you're happy with yourself." After the next bout of mumbling, Wales snarls, "Well, you've had your fun now, so you can damn well go round there and put it right." To Northern Ireland he says, "We'll be there in about quarter of an hour, Mikey."

"Quarter of an hour? Where are you?"

"Practically just down the street." Wales sighs heavily. "We've all got a meeting with our boss tomorrow morning, but we've had get rooms in a hotel because Arthur refuses to let Alasdair stay in his house right now. Though," he adds, his tone brightening, "he'll probably feel more kindly towards him if he thinks Alasdair's there to help."  
-

* * *

-  
Contrary to Wales' optimistic predictions, the dog hurls himself at Scotland as soon as he steps through the front door, howling like an entire choir of banshees.

It latches itself on to the bottom of one of Scotland's trouser legs, and whilst Scotland does swing his unencumbered leg back as if to kick out at it, he simply stands there swaying unsteadily for a moment afterwards, obviously unable to bring himself to follow through even though he would have had no hesitation in doing so were England in his normal form.

Instead he reaches down and pries the dog's jaws free with remarkable gentleness, then hurriedly hops behind Wales' shielding bulk before it has chance to grab at him again.

The dog makes a few spirited attempts at lunging at Scotland, but when they're thwarted by Wales standing firm, it flops down onto the hallway floor in an apparent fit of pique, its muzzle resting on its paws and the little tan spots of its eyebrows scrunched down indignantly low.

Scotland eyes it over the top of Wales' head, at first warily, and then with ever-increasing amusement. "He's so wee," he observes delightedly. "I thought he'd turn into a Springer Spaniel, or an English Setter. Something a _bit_ more impressive, anyhow."

The dog begins to growl again, which sets Scotland off laughing so hard that he eventually has to lean his weight against Wales' back for support.

"Jesus," he gasps out, "he sounds like an angry bumblebee."

"Honestly, _Yr Alban_," Wales says, clearly trying to sound prim and disapproving, but failing just as thoroughly at that as he is at holding back his smile, "it's not _that_ funny."

"It fucking is," Scotland insists.

"I doubt _Lloegr_ thinks so. Turn him back."

"Naw." Wales twists around to shoot their brother a disapproving glare, but Scotland simply shrugs it off. "No need. It was nothing but a weak cantrip in the first place; I'm surprised it's lasted _this_ long. I should think it'll have worn itself out in the next hour or two, regardless."  
-

* * *

-  
Twenty minutes later, after Scotland has barricaded himself inside his old bedroom, and the dog has been lured into the kitchen by the promise of bacon, Wales finally judges it safe enough to turn his back on them both for long enough to prepare a pot of tea.

"It's retribution for that curse _Lloegr_ cast on him last week," he explains as he and Northern Ireland wait for the kettle to boil.

"What curse?" Northern Ireland asks.

Wales furrows his brow. "The one that made _Yr Alban_ talk incessantly."

"Oh, that one," Northern Ireland says, even though it's the first he's heard of it, because it's doubtless one of those facts that his brothers have presumed he'd absorbed through that magical intelligence-gathering osmosis they all appear to believe he possesses, and Wales will just be confused if he pleads ignorance.

"They're behaving like children. I wish I could—"

Wales' voice is drowned out by a sudden loud boom from behind them, and he and Northern Ireland swivel around on their heels in tandem to face England, who is crouched next to the table, blinking in puzzlement and stark bollock naked.

They both screw their eyes closed with aghast sychronicity, too, and England takes advantage of their twin instant of distraction to spring to his feet and thunder his way up the stairs.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, Scotland," he yells out from what sounds like the landing.

"You can fucking try," Scotland yells back.

The air around them seems to thicken, gathering magic sparking through it like lightning in a storm cloud.

Wales groans, rubbing at his temples with trembling hands. "And so it continues," he says gloomily.


End file.
